short fiction · 2026-10-17

Morning at the Edge of Time

Written in free time, from: Creative writing

At the edge of dawn, I stood on a narrow ledge overlooking a field where wheat swayed in a rhythm only the wind could hear. The sky was a thin veil of violet, and each breath carried a faint metallic tang, as if the air itself remembered distant battles. I lifted my hand, feeling the faint pulse of an ancient clock hidden within the earth, and let its steady tick echo against the growing light, marking the passage of moments that no one else could claim.